


Genius of their time

by orphan_account



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Howard is a Musical Genius, I'm ashamed to even tag this Victorian London, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Time Travel, the least researched Historical AU ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4572429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vince Noir is living life as large as a second wardrobe assistant in the Piccalilli Palace theatre can allow. When he finds a red door leading to the colourful world of Shamans, Jumpsuits and Chips with Gravy he's ready to leave the grey skies of Victorian London behind.</p>
<p>Apart from the small matter of Howard Moon, orchestra nobody major source of confusion in his life, who is revered in the future for being the greatest Cream Poet of the age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genius of their time

A Theatre will have unknown doors, that’s a universal truth. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know what the door is for, someone else will. For example there is the door at the back of the third dressing room, that hasn’t opened since Gladstone was in short trousers. The actors know it was once used by the great escapologist Sidewise Tucker to evade the adoring public at the stage door. The door with the knob you need to lift and twist at just the right angle is famous to the stagehands as access to the roof. It affords the perfect vantage point to pitch nuts at those entering for the dress circle. And although it hasn’t been used since Plumtree’s Menagerie of Curiosities and Vagaries used the stage, the giant double doors at the south entrance to the theatre could fit a whole elephant through the older set designers insist with pained expressions.

 

All in all, the red door outside the wardrobe room was totally ordinary and Vince Noir was unlikely to ever notice anything unremarkable.  

 

“Vince, who is that man?”

 

Vince looked up from the set of black tight be was darning. Under protest.  His pleas to leave them as they were had not been headed despite him pointing out how genius the effect the laddering was. He would have to try the effect out in his own time when he gets his hands own some hosiery.

 

“Sorry?” He asked. It all the thoughts of tights he’d quite forgotten the question.

 

Mrs Gideon sighed, looking fondly exasperated over her pince-nez. “That man with the large case.” She pointed lazily with the free hand she wasn’t trying to measure the company’s prima ballerina with. “Is he new?”

 

Vince followed the direction of the Wardrobe Mistress arm towards the man in question. A unremarkable man stood against the wall, awkwardly clutching an instrument case as he tried to talk to the ballerinas. Despite the whole troop being in squeezed into the room there was a conspicuous space around the man. He wore a brown suit that even five seasons ago must have disowned. His shoes were so neatly shined as if to compensate for their utter lack of style. If the ensemble didn’t clue Vince into the identity of the man the creeping Moon Pie expression aimed in their direction would have.

 

“That’s Howard Moon.” Vince answered with a sense of deja vu, looking down quickly as he accidently caught the other man’s eye. “He’s in the orchestra.”

 

“He must be one of Bainbridge’s new recruits.” Mrs Gideon said moving onto the next girl glad to have the matter almost forgotten. “The man will give anyone with their front teeth a position it’s no way…”

 

“No I, umm, think he’s been here a long time.” Vince murmured watching as Howard tried to talk to haughty blonde who gave him a wide berth. He would almost feel sorry for the man, if he didn’t have to have this conversation with Gideon every time Moon failed to get her attention. 

 

“Oh.” She hummed, distracted from the conversation by the page of measurements on the page in front of her.  Writing something lightly in the margin she smiled lightly at Vince.

 

“Would you ask him to leave? He’s putting of the girls. And they are so temperamental without the new staff hanging around.”

 

Vince bit his lip, “He means no harm.” He offered as Moon smiled with mercury bright eyes at another girl whose own eye widened in fear. “He’ll probably leave for rehearsal soon.”

 

Vince had only spoken to Howard Moon once. The Piccalilli Palace Christmas party was open to all the staff, actors, and musicians and other vital employees of the theatre. It was during Vince first year there and he was still eager to capture the glamour of the greasepaint and gas lights he’d glimpsed as a child. He’d worn a cream coloured tunic made from the remnants of a silky blouse donated to him by Gideon when she realised he was living on offcuts from the theatre. His sartorial choice had been met with bemusement rather than the applause Vince felt it was deserved.  He’d had a wonderful time despite the lukewarm reception some had given him when they found he was a lowly costume assistant rather than an actor. Professional quirkiness would have excused sartorial unconventionality it seemed.

 

He’d left the party for a breath of air untainted by the giant cigar smog produced the braying theatre owner. Outside Vince had literally bumped into the Moon. The other man’s normally ordinary face had been flushed, the free flowing champagne making his cheek glow under the light of the full moon.  

 

Vince had only known the musician through the sound of his voice bouncing off the auditorium as he recited dry Shakespeare of the rolling eyes of the company. Even if he’d cared to find out he would have had no idea if Moon was any good at his craft as his blended into the orchestra.  Vince would honestly be hard pressed to remember what Howard Moon played, despite the fact he carried around his instrument case like an unwieldy talisman. 

 

That night however, the other man had been electric with something. He’d grabbed Vince’s face in surprisingly gentle hands, uncaring of the champagne flute that shattered on the cobbles. The drink had made him less bland but more indecipherable than before. He stared into Vince’s eyes and babbled nonsense verses about creamy skin and alabaster whip with an intensity Vince could not look away from. When he finished the expression on his face was so hopeful, even through the fuzz of alcohol clouding his tender tawny eyes, that Vince felt he needed to find the right words.

 

His breath had faltered, his mind going blank as a handsome driver two streets away shouted at goose in the road. Vince had never felt his inability to find the right words so keenly. If Howard Moon had needed a hat or a dance made to answer his strange recital perhaps Vince could have obliged. But who knows. As it was Vince’s tentative “Alright Mr Moon.” Had elicited only a sigh from the other man. The dejected little puff of frozen air had barely dissipated into the London night before the doors swung closed behind him, leaving Vince unsteady and alone.

 

Since then the two had next exchanged anything more than a nod, only seeing each other when Moon came to make eyes at the oblivious Gideon.  Vince had realised with an embarrassingly slowness that Moon’s words had not been for him but for Mrs Gideon. In his inebriated state he must have mistaken Vince for her and addressed his mad little verse to her double. It was shame she had never heard it Vince mused. There had been a wealth of real emotion in the words that had moved him. Perhaps if he’d recited it to her when sober maybe she’d remember his name.

 

 His mind occupied by Howard Moon, Vince got up to follow him when he left for rehearsal. Moving on instinct rather than any solid plan, Vince followed him out into the corridor. Outside of the room was empty, however the other man having hurried away.

 

Looking around Vince saw the red door. He didn’t know exactly where it went, but someone must do. Perhaps that person had used it to get to orchestra rehearsal.

 

The poetry in Vince Noir’s soul ran towards image and shapes rather than words. But there was a part of him that yearned for his hand in that moment to be guided by fate or literary design. But like others before him he was only following the universal truth. It didn’t matter if he didn’t know what the door was for, someone else would.

 

He turned the handle.

 

The first thing that Vince noticed was the change in temperature. The room he had entered was warm as if it had been in the blazing sun for hours. But it was barely evening and the drapes in the room were drawn. His nose was filled with something spicy that called to childhood memory of mince pies. But the was a darker earthy note underneath that recalled less innocent memories of opium and dark rooms.

 

Vince blinked as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the ceiling lamp with shone brighter than even the lime lights when they had been fresh put in. Even when his vision returned he could not believe it had come back correct.

 

A little man sat with his small legs dangling from the settee, dropping the long pipe he was holding onto a table. Resting on his head, which cocked to one side with surprise, was a turban of the richest orange that Vince had seen only in spices and certainly not in cloth. He crossed his golden slippered feet under him as he turned to his companion.

 

“I thought you were going down to B&Q to get that door fixed Bollo.”

 

“Sorry.” said the (honest to god) gorilla. Vince stared as the monkey hung his furry head in shame.

 

“Alright?” the turban headed man lisped with an easy smile, “I’m Naboo and this is Bollo.”

 

The gorilla waved and Vince waved back his mind still trying to take the sights before him in.

 

“I’m Vince Noir. Are you in the show tonight?”

 

Vince was pretty sure tonight’s performance did not include a mystic or a monkey but he’d never been particularly on the ball when it can to the ins and outs of the Piccalilli’s playbill.

 

The little man shook his head and retrieved his pipe, taking a long inhale as his considered Vince, “Where you from?”

 

“I work here.” Vince said not grasping the question feeling a bit stupid despite the easy tones of Naboo.

 

“Where here?” asked Bollo as he copied Naboo and inhaled from the pipe.

 

“Piccalilli Palace.”

 

Bollo nodded, “That what Velvet Onion was called.” He said to Naboo, “Fossil have old photo over bar.”

 

Vince made a noise of confusion drawing the attention of the two strangers, “What?”

 

“You’re in the future.” Naboo explained. He got to his feet and padded across to the window motioning for Vince to follow. “That door’s a dimensional portal. Bollo was supposed to go at it with some WD40 but he didn’t.”

 

A muffled apology came from the couch.

 

“The future.” Vince repeated as he joint Naboo at the window.

 

“Here.” Nobbo said throwing open the curtains to reveal the street bellow, he pointed into the distance to a familiar roof top. “That’s where you started.  Piccalilli Palace Theatre, only it’s the Velvet Onion now.”

 

Vince wasn’t listening though. He was transfixed by the world bellow. Vehicles too loud and bright rolled on smooth streets. A billboard with a smiling man without a hat extolled the method of regaining lost hair. A burst of something that must be music, primal and sharp, was cut off by a woman’s unashamed laugh.  

 

It was too much. It was a more that a dream. He could never have imagined something as incredible as this. It was dream of a dream come true. Vince’s head hurt. Distracted, He watched as two girls walked past the front of a shop.

 

“What’s that?” he heard himself ask distantly.

 

Naboo followed the line of Vince’s shaking finger. “That’s a jumpsuit.” He replied.

 

“Oh.” Vince watched until the girls went out of sight. “Can I have one?”

 

“Sure” said Naboo as he led Vince to settee and lightly guided him down between himself and Bollo.

 

“You okay Vince.” Bollo asked.

 

Vince turned to smile weakly at the monkey, “Oh. You can talk. Most monkeys don’t want to talk to me.”

 

On his first weekend off from the theatre Vince had visited the zoo. He’d thought the animals there would be happy to chat like the ones where he was born. He’d left after only an hour and had to go out with the dancing girls that night to forget the sadness and anger of the beasts and they cried out in their native tongues.  Only Howard Moon had noticed his uncharacteristic melancholy, bringing him a cup of tea during his break with flushed cheeks and without looking him in the eye. 

 

Bollo handed him the pipe conciliatorily. Vince took a drag inhaling smoke sweeter than he’d expected. He looked around the room; at the bright furnishings with exotic patterns, the strange and shiny boxes with knobs on special tables, the gleaming magazines with bright pictures of shiny happy people smiling at Vince. He looked back at the red door were it sat ordinary and unremarkable.

 

He exhaled the smoke and handed the pipe to Naboo with steady hands. “Do you have anything stronger?” he asked.

 

Naboo grinned, “Get the mixing bowl out Bollo. I’ve still got some of the Peruvian Azuela left.”

 

Two hours later and Vince is clear of any time displacement he’d felt before. Hash Cakes, he has decided will top of his list of things he likes about the future. He knows there will better things out there. He can feel the pull of this new world calling to him in the thrum of his fingers and beat of its music, but right now he is happy to lie on Nabbo’s floor. 

 

 He’s found the most beautiful material under the settee. It’s as smooth as tortoiseshell but bendable like starched cotton. It’s the brightest purple he’s only seen in a posy of hedgerow violets one of the dancers got from her fiancé. Vince runs his fingers over it, feeling the weave. 

 

“I have never seen anyone so fascinated by polyester.” He hears Naboo say from far away, “It’s like the 70’s all over again.”

 

Vince has never heard a gorilla giggle before, it’s a fascinating sound. He sits up to look at his new friends more closely. He has opened his mouth to thanks them when the music they have been listening too registers. A woman with a voice like city smog is singing.

 

“Oh sweet lady with your face like a cream oval…”

 

“What is this?” he breaths getting unsteadily to his feet to drift towards the source of those words.

 

“That’s Amy Winehouse.” Naboo answered. He tried to straighten his turban were it had fallen over own eye.

 

“Kate Bush version better.” Bollo rumbled.

 

“What’s the song called?” Vince breathed.

 

“..delicious slope of cream and your ears like cream flaps.”

 

“It’s called Ode to the Lady of Cream.” Naboo said.

 

“I know this song.” Vince said almost in a whisper as to not miss a second of the song. “Howard wrote this.”

 

“Who Howard?” Bollo asked.

 

Naboo got up and joint Vince by the CD player. He caught Vince’s wide eyes, his mind back on the cold December night so close yet so far from here.

 

“Vince.” Naboo said slowly, unwilling to break the spell, “Did you know the Cream Poet?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at http://pigeonstatueconundrum.tumblr.com. come and say hello


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